


Sometimes I Have Everything (Yet I Wish I Felt Something)

by thefutureisbright



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Art Thief AU, Art Thief Eddie Kaspbrak, Art Thief Richie Tozier, Crime, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Swearing, maybe smut maybe not am unsure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 00:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20805848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefutureisbright/pseuds/thefutureisbright
Summary: Everything Eddie Kaspbrak knew about art, he’d learnt from stealing it. He knew how to recognise where the layers of paint were the thinnest, how to cut into thick, chalky canvas, how he could slough the painting from its frame without damaging either, and how he could store a painting properly, so that it didn’t get marked by the sun or covered in a thin layer of dust. His own artistic talent extended to stick figures and no further, but he was now able to identify a Monet from a mile away, and he was able to pick a genuine Pollock from a pile of fakes.[OR: Eddie Kaspbrak, pick-pocket turned international art thief and self-diagnosed lone wolf meets Richie Tozier, eager amateur, who just can't seem to catch a break]





	Sometimes I Have Everything (Yet I Wish I Felt Something)

“You’ve got exactly four minutes before security will be able to get the camera back online, Eddie”

“Got it”

“Are you sure? Because it certainly doesn’t seem like you’ve got it. You should have been out of there five minutes –”

“I said I’ve fuckin’ got it, so I’ve fuckin’ got it, lay off”

The painting was heavier than he’d anticipated. He had done all the calculations, had sat up well into the night, eyelids drooping, plugging numbers into his dusty calculator, making sure that he would be able to wrench Ophelia from her golden frame without] the need for anyone else to enter the gallery.

But he was wrong. The painting was at least two kilograms heavier than his calculations had suggested, and he knew that the excess weight would throw his balance off when Mike finally set the crankshaft off, and he and the painting would begin to ascend through the skylight attached to nothing but two snaking cables.

Not that he’d admit it to Stan, who was now gnashing his teeth in Eddie’s ear, hissing something about how four minutes had now become three minutes which was now two minutes, and _Jesus Christ, Eddie, hurry the fuck up_, but he had started to panic. His knife was too blunt to cut through the thick material of the canvas on the first try, and it whined and squeaked as he jabbed it into the matte material. A rookie mistake. He resorted to sawing instead of slicing, jerky aborted movements instead of one elegant flick of the wrist. His heart hammered against his ribcage, a brutal thumping that echoed in his ears, drowning out the suspicious silence of the gallery. Suddenly, half way through a particularly aggressive sawing motion, Eddie’s knife slipped, and instead of letting it gore a hole in the flesh of the painting, Eddie instinctively jammed his thumb in the way. The blade bit into the soft flesh, and blood immediately started oozing out of the neat gash.

"Motherfucker! "

He’d only ever sliced through one painting before. It was a Seurat. _La Mer à Grandcamp_, Bill had told him, The Sea at Grandcamp. Eddie remembers the tiny little sea-boats bobbing on the murky water, masts reaching out towards the sky, disappearing into the cloud, and he’d sliced right through the center of one of them when Stan had made him jump, voice static in his earpiece. In his panic, he’d wrenched the painting from its frame, turning the small slash into a gaping open wound, before he shoved the injured painting into his bag, crumpled and unsellable. Bill had yelled at him, and Eddie had stood and taken it, tail between his legs.

“Eddie, _Eddie seriously_, you gotta move, you really gotta move, Mike’s gonna start the winch in 30 seconds whether you’ve got the damn painting or not,” Stan demanded, voice cutting through the silence, dragging Eddie out of his introspection and back into the present.

One cautious tug later, and the canvas came away from the frame. Eddie screwed up his face in anticipation of the alarm that never rings but always could. It didn't ring. He held the painting at arm’s length, eyes dancing along the swooping lines, following the flow of the river, before finally landing on Ophelia’s face.

“She’s beautiful”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s a real peach. Mike’s gonna start the winch, are you ready?”

“Ready”

Silently, like a heron taking flight, Eddie’s feet floated up off the floor. The canvas sat leaden and heavy in the vice-grip of his arms, and, as predicted, Mike’s voice filtered through his ear-piece.

“There’s too much weight”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say, Mikey”

“The painting, I mean. It’s too heavy, your calculations must have been wrong. I don’t know if this configuration is gonna hold you”

“We’ll soon find out”

A metallic whining sound filtered down from the skylight, and Eddie braced himself for a fifty foot fall.

The fall never came. What came instead were strong arms, the tell-tale sound of the winch clicking off, and Eddie and the canvas were dragged onto the roof by a vaguely sweaty and very panicked looking Mike.

“I honestly thought I’d be scraping you off the gallery floor,” Mike laughed, but his voice was laced with something serious.

He’d only done a few runs with Mike. He normally worked with Bill, who took risks and was almost always on the receiving end of Stan’s wrath for something or other. Mike didn’t take risks. Mike was methodical, Mike was reliable. Mike never left Eddie stranded in the middle of a strangers house in Iceland, two paintings under each arm and unable to open the door to escape, whilst he pillaged the wine cellar for a particular vintage red he’d been hankering for. Eddie much preferred working with Mike.

“Bev’s already sent over the details of the next job. It’s in a small downtown gallery, and you’re going in through the door and not the ceiling so it should be an easier run than this one,” Mike said, busying himself with dismantling the winch.

Eddie sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, before pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes hard enough that he saw constellations whirling in the dark behind his eyelids.

“When?”

“Tuesday”

“Today is Monday”

“… So tomorrow, then”

“_For fucks sake_!”

* * *

Everything Eddie Kaspbrak knew about art, he’d learnt from stealing it. He knew how to recognise where the layers of paint were the thinnest, how to cut into thick, chalky canvas, how he could slough the painting from its frame without damaging either, and how he should store a painting properly, so that it didn’t get marked by the sun or covered in a thin layer of dust. His own artistic talent extended to stick figures and no further, but he was now able to identify a Monet from a mile away, and he was able to pick a genuine Pollock from a pile of fakes.

He’d been head-hunted for this job. A petty thief from downtown New York, Eddie hadn’t expected to ascend to the lofty heights of international art thief before the age of thirty, but when he’d run into Stan on the corner of Canal Street, pocket bulging, full of stolen wallets, Stan had taken one look at him and dragged him into his jeep. Eddie had put up a fight, punching and kicking and swearing at the stern faced man he’d assumed was a cop, but Stan had locked the car doors and turned in his seat to face Eddie.

“You stole five wallets in less than ten minutes”

“No I didn’t”

“You did. I was watching you. You practically took that last one out of that man’s hand and he didn’t see you. You were right in front of his face, and he all but let you take it,” Stan had said, voice almost reverent, impressed.

“What can I say, I’m an _artist_,” Eddie had spat, hackles up and snarling.

“Do you just steal wallets, then?” Stan had said, voice light, light enough to almost be a laugh and it nurtured rage in Eddie’s stomach.

“Look, I haven’t got time for this cat and mouse shit. Either arrest me, charge me, take me downtown or whatever the fuck it is you need to do, or let me go. I’m not gonna suck your dick or anything”

“Feisty little street urchin aren’t we. I’m not a cop. Far from it, actually. I’m … I relieve art galleries and private collectors of their surplus inventory,” Stan had announced, smiling as if he’d told a joke that he expected Eddie to understand.

“So you’re an art thief?” Eddie supplied after a long pause. Stan nodded, raising his eyebrows at Eddie, almost impressed.

“Sort of. I don’t do the stealing. We have a guy for that, but he’s no good. He makes too many mistakes, and he’s not quick enough. We need someone else”

“… Me?”

“I hope so”

“So lemme get this straight, I’ve just been _headhunted_ for a formidable career as an art thief?” Eddie said, incredulous.

“You could put it like that. We offer a great salary and some truly excellent perks”

“Do art thieves get a pension?” Eddie asked sardonically, but Stan didn’t take the bait.

“But of course!”

“This is fucking insane. I don’t even know your name and you’re asking me to steal art for you. How can I be sure you’re not a cop?”

“I’ve got a _Picasso_ in the trunk of my car,” Stan said, grinning knowingly as if that’d explain everything. It explained nothing.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

Stan sighed, and waved dismissively at Eddie, “it _should_ mean something to you. It _will_ mean something to you, soon. That is, if you take me up on my very lucrative offer. You’ve got thirty seconds before I turf you out of my car and send you back to your sad little life stealing pocket-change from people no richer than yourself”

Eddie stared at Stan, holding eye-contact for longer than necessary, challenging him to look away, to look towards the ceiling or the floor, but he didn’t. Stan held Eddie’s gaze steadily, and bared his teeth in a wolfish grin.

“Fine, but I know fuckin’ nothing about art”

* * *

The Tuesday job certainly seems easier than the Monday job, at least on paper. The gallery was small, much smaller than the ones they usually hit. It only had one entrance, which also doubled up as its only exit. There was a fire-escape, and several wall to ceiling windows, but other than that, the building was entirely secure with no other entry points. Ben composed a digital blueprint of the building, and managed to take control of the security system without much effort. He watched the security tapes of the night before every morning for a week, and plotted out the lone security guards monitoring route. The guard seemed follow the same route, like clock-work, each night, which made their job a whole lot easier. Bill reasoned that it shouldn’t be too hard to evade him, and began plotting their route through the gallery to the object of their desires.

The painting they’re going after was called _Ignis_. It’s a mass of orange and red, different hues and shades bleeding into each other, an abstract mess that gave Eddie a headache. Bev seemed to like it, though, and she told them all with a smug smile that the artist, a young German man, was anticipated to become one of the best-selling artists of the decade. 

They made a plan. Stan, Ben and Bev were to stay behind, as usual. They were useless on the floor, and readily admit as much. Ben stayed behind to remotely monitor the security system, and Stan stayed behind to act as surveillance, to stay connected to Eddie constantly through his earpiece. Eddie, Bill and Mike set off in the blacked out van, arriving at the gallery at ten minutes past three in the morning. There was another van in the parking lot, white and unmarked. They all clambered out of the van, and wordlessly split up. Ben had remotely deactivated the security shutters on the fire escape, so Eddie managed to slip through the door silently and undetected. He went in alone, as he always did, having refused from day one to work with anyone else, despite Stan's initial protests. Bill stayed with the van, and Mike hovered around the exit, connected to Eddie via their earpieces. He’d be ready to rush in if he had to, if Eddie found himself in trouble, but thus far, he'd never had to. 

The gallery was silent, and security lights flashed red and foreboding in the darkness. Pulling his balaclava over his face, Eddie began to tip-toe towards the rear exhibition suite.

He had taken three cautious steps into the room before he spotted the other person in the room.

There was a figure, clad in dark green camouflage, tugging hopelessly at the very painting that Eddie had come to liberate (Stan’s word). The figure didn't hear Eddie stalk into the room, didn't hear Eddie as he strafed along the wall, didn't hear Eddie sidle up next to him. It took a full forty-five seconds for the stranger to notice Eddie standing next to him, and when he did, he screamed.

“_FUCK_!”

Eddie slammed a palm over the mouth of the screaming stranger.

“Shut the fuck up or you’ll get us both caught,” Eddie hissed, hand still clamped over the strangers mouth.

The stranger looked up at him with eyes as wide as dinner plates from behind thick rimmed red glasses. Once Eddie’s sure that they won't make any more noise, he let the stranger go.

“Dude, that fuckin’ hurt,” The stranger moaned, and rubbed a hand over his chin. Eddie rolled his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“_Stealing the painting_,” Eddie said, plainly.

“Not just a pretty face then,” the stranger drawled, and it took every bit of Eddie’s self-control not to sock him in the arm.

Eddie sighed instead. “You can’t see my face”

“Naw, but I can see your eyes”

Stupidly, Eddie choked on his tongue, caught off-guard. He spluttered, just wordless noise, and the stranger laughs at him.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Fuck off. Why are you stealing this painting?”

The stranger shrugged, “I was told to. Boss wants it, and what the boss wants the boss gets”

“Who’s your boss?” Eddie asked, as he pushed past the stranger before he stepped over the velvet rope cordoning off the painting from the rest of the room. The stranger followed, forcing himself between Eddie and the painting.

“No can do. That information’s classified. What are you doing here? You’re not a cop, are you?”

“Do I _look_ like a cop?” Eddie deadpanned, gesturing to himself. He was wearing his black neoprene bodysuit, the very same bodysuit that Bev affectionately called his catsuit.

“No, you look like you’re going surfing, what is that? A wetsuit? It doesn’t leave much to the imagination, if you know what I’m saying”

“Fuck off, at least I blend into the darkness. Camouflage doesn’t work when you’re not in the jungle, moron”

The strangers face turned pink under Eddie’s scrutiny, and he turned around, and continued trying to wrench the painting off the wall without another word. Eddie tried to grab his bicep, but the stranger shrugged him off.

“Stop, fucking _stop_! You’re pulling at it too hard, you’re going to set off the –”

As if on cue, the alarm roared to life, screaming into the silence.

“… fucking SHIT!” Eddie yelled, not tempering his voice, before he scrambled straight towards the back window, the one that Ben had identified as his emergency escape route. He’d never had to use his pre-planned emergency escape route before, and he internally cursed this stranger for breaking his streak of good fortune.

Before he could throw himself through the window, glass be damned, Eddie glanced back over his shoulder. The stranger hadn’t moved. He was still standing with his hands on the painting, face white as a sheet of marble. He was shaking so violently that Eddie could see his knees knock together, a sight that would have been funny if Eddie hadn't have been sure that any second now the police would have charged through the door to arrest them both. He made the decision instantly, almost passively.

“YOU!”

The stranger looked up at him, wide eyed and terrified.

“Fucking follow me, _MOVE_!”

The stranger sprung into action instantly, abandoning the painting that was now hanging onto the wall by only one corner, and scrambled over to the window where Eddie was standing.

“Cover your face,” Eddie demanded, before he kicked the window with all of his might, sending shards of glass raining down on them like snowflakes, twinkling in the moonlight.

Eddie crawled through the window, wincing as a jagged piece of glass caught his hand, and briefly debated sprinting off in the direction of the van, before extending an arm back through the window.

“Take my hand!”

The stranger grabbed Eddie’s hand, pulling himself through the shallow tunnel of jagged glass. They both took off in a sprint, Eddie’s heart beating a brutal rhythm in his ear. Eddie lead them in the direction of the alleyway that they had previously agreed Bill would move the van to if any alarms sounded, and as soon as they had rounded the corner, Mike threw the backdoor open, and both Eddie and the stranger all but fell into the back of the van.

“DRIVE!” Mike yelled, and, with Bill at the wheel, the van skidded out of the alleyway, tires screeching violently.

For the first time in over an hour, Eddie closed his eyes, and let himself breathe. The illusion of calm only lasted for three seconds, however, because Mike almost immediately jabbed him in the shoulder.

“Eddie, who the fuck is this?!” Mike said, gesturing wildly at the stranger, who was sat hunched in the corner of the van, head between his hands. Eddie watched him, vaguely concerned that he was going to be sick everywhere. He nudged a discarded bucket closer with his foot, as discretely as he could manage.

“It’s a _crazy_ fuckin’ story, Mikey, you ready?”

“Just tell me, Eddie, Jesus”

“He was trying to steal _Ignis_”

“… _No way_”

“Yes way. I walked in, stealthy as a fuckin’ cat, and there he was, all dressed up in camo like he’s off hunting or something, trying to haul the canvas out of the frame without having cut it first”

“Who does he work for?” Mike asked, sending the stranger a concerned look. The stranger either didn't notice or didn't care, head still between his hands, face still suspiciously pale.

“He won’t tell me. Says he’s got a boss, though, so we know it isn’t just him.”

Mike shifted in the van, clambering over the center console to sit shotgun next to Bill, who was practically red in the face. Eddie carefully decided not to engage him in conversation, and instead crawled across the van so he was sat next to the stranger.

“What’s your name? I’m Eddie, that’s Mike and Bill’s driving”

“Richie,” the stranger – Richie – supplied, in a voice that was much steadier and more even than Eddie had anticipated.

“So, Richie, where are we dropping you?”

“52 Portland Street. Do you know it?”

“I’m sure Bill can get us there, right Bill?”

“Sure,” Bill supplied in a curt, snippy tone but Eddie counted it as a win that he spoke at all.

“I can’t believe I almost got caught” Richie said, and Eddie laughed.

“Yeah, you were giving that frame a real good tug. Have you done this before?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“No”

Richie doesn’t say anything, but he looks up at Eddie and winks.

Now they’re not in the gallery, and Richie’s face is bathed in the soft glow of the torch they rigged up in the van to serve as a light source, Eddie felt something mimicking attraction stir in the pit of his stomach. Richie’s face was angular, sharp lines and pointed tips, and his hair was swept off his face with a bandana that should have looked absurd but somehow didn't. Eddie thought idly that he’d seen this face before, in a portrait perhaps, or painted in the sunset when the sun hung heavy and bloated just above the horizon.

Richie’s looked back at him, eyes softer than they’d been before, and maybe they were also a little damp, because they were shining in the torchlight, and Eddie forced himself to look away.

Richie huffed, an annoyed little noise that Eddie is sure he wasn’t supposed to hear, but he did. He realised three beats too late that his body was entirely angled towards Richie, toes to shoulders. He tried not to think about what that might mean.

Then they were pulling into Portland Street, and it was too soon, Eddie told himself that it’s because he wants to quiz Richie about his boss, but he knew it was a lie.

“I have actually done this before, you know. I’m just – that one threw me off. I’ve never done paintings before, I’ve always been on sculptures and small paraphernalia, you know. Jugs and vases and shit. The painting guy got … well, he quit. So that’s me now. The new painting guy”

“He quit?” Eddie parrots back, shooting Richie a sceptical look, but Richie just shrugs.

“S’what I was told. So are you guys a team or something?”

“Or something,” Bill said before Eddie can speak, and then he’s pulling the van into park, and switching off the engine. “Portland street”

“Thanks, Big Bill!” Richie beamed, earning a scowl from Bill for his trouble.

Swinging the door of the van open, Richie hopped out. “Care to walk me to my door, Eddie?”

“Naw, too comfy,” Eddie joked, but he hopped out of the van anyway.

They walked slowly up the path to Richie’s door, in a bizarrely comfortable silence.

“Are you really not going to tell me who your boss is?” Eddie asks, pushing his luck.

“Nope. I would, but I can’t. Don’t wanna wake up with a horse’s head in my bed or some shit”

“You are joking, right?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. Wouldn’t put it past him, I suppose”

“Richie … are you safe?” Eddie faltered, after several seconds of silence.

“Safe? Uh... How safe are any of us, Eds? You do realise that we _break the law_ on a regular fuckin’ basis right?”

“You know what I mean, jack-ass. Serves me right for giving a damn about you, I suppose”

“You give a damn about me?”

“About as much as someone can give a damn about a dumbass stranger,” Eddie shot back, but he was smiling, and Richie was smiling too, a dorky sort of grin that reminded Eddie of the sun.

“I’m touched, Eddie, truly. I’m safe. I’m safe enough. I won’t be doing this _forever_, anyway. Not exactly a career with long-term progression goals,” Richie said, as he leant against his front door with one shoulder.

“I’m gonna head off, then," Eddie said, and gestured to the van over his shoulder with his thumb, "next time, use a damn knife and cut the canvas out of the frame”

“You got it, chief!”

“Eddie! Hurry the fuck up” Bill yelled from the van, and Eddie groaned.

“See you, Richie. Stay out of trouble!”

Eddie jogged back to the van, hopping inside the open back door.

“So who’s your _new best friend_?” Bill asked bluntly.

“It’s not like that, I was just trying to get information about his boss,” Eddie replied, defensively, “and anyway, I didn’t manage to convince him to tell me anything so it doesn’t matter now”

“You were looking awful chummy walking up to his house is all I’m saying”

“Well maybe your visions clouded with all the steam rising from your very red face”

“Stop being so fucking childish –”

“Look, we’re all pissed that tonight didn’t work out,” Mike interjected, “but shall we try and not bite each other’s heads off before we arrive back at base?”

Bill put the van in gear, and drove away from Richie’s house without another word.

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: I have never robbed an art gallery, nor tried to pry a canvas from a large frame, so this is all a figment of my imagination. I've also taken liberties in terms of what painting is at what gallery. Some paintings are fictional, some galleries are fictional.
> 
> Catch me on tumblr @ queen-sock if you wanna talk ART HEIST BOYS
> 
> <3


End file.
